


Fullness

by TeaCub90



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, obligatory Halloween fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: It's Halloween night; Crowley has a question to ask.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Fullness

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually written last year for the Spooktober Challenge, but at the time, I didn't have enough courage to put it up. Ergo, here it is this time, a year later, cleaned up; unbeta'ed, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for reading and Happy Halloween. <3

* * *

‘Do you think I’m a monster, angel?’ Crowley asks quietly.

He’s up on the second level of the shop, wandering around, staring at the books with a glass of wine in hand, running his fingers over the titles. Aziraphale, one floor below, glances up at the question, a pile of books in his own arms that he’s just in the process of re-shelving. 

‘Why do you ask, my dear?’ he turns, raising his voice a little to be heard over the yearly Halloween hubbub outside their doors. Watches Crowley drain his wineglass in one, throat working it down, before slamming it onto the nearest coaster – Aziraphale found him using a first edition of _Wind in the Willows_ once for the same use and got Exceedingly Cross, thankyou very much – before he saunters down to the lower level to meet the angel, who can’t help but feel just a tad concerned.

‘They all celebrate, these humans,’ Crowley’s voice is thoughtful, almost to the point of tender. ‘I mean, they all – they dress up in weird clothes and go out with glow-in-the-dark sticks and they pretend it’s the eighties again and they have no idea how close they came to being really, properly scared. Like - _this_ close.’

He holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart; Aziraphale smiles sadly, reaches out with his spare hand to pull at his palm, pull it down and away from such pessimism. And yet he recognises the frustration of _not_ being recognised as the ones who saved the human-race, or least had a rather firm hand in it; recognises the frustration of watching humans wreck themselves, all too often.

Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with celebrating things, of course not – that’s what life is all about. Eat, drink and be merry, and all that sort of thing. There’s no point to even being alive otherwise, is there? Even Jesus himself partook in drinking and dancing; he was always so exceedingly moral, which made him excellent to talk to. Kind, raising a toast to those around him, wherever they came from, the Lord of the Dance himself. Teaching Aziraphale, a long time ago, to love and to dance and to be kind. But mostly, to love.

‘They would have been so frightened by it all, wouldn’t they?’ he murmurs, almost to himself, considering the crescendo of storms, the promise of fire – the jam on the M25 the closest they came to knowing what could have been, would have been in store for them. All things considered, Aziraphale is rather glad he missed that bit. He’s even gladder that Adam brought him back; back to himself; back to Crowley. Back to this life they lead on Earth. ‘Though I fail to see the – ’

‘They told me, once or twice,’ Crowley interrupts; sounds as though he’s in his snake form, attempting to swallow a particularly large egg. Nods to the window; jams his hands in his pockets, a little less _devil-may-care_ and a lot more _demon-cares-quite-a-lot-actually;_ knows this is the best place outside his own flat, away from his long-suffering plants, where he can be just so. ‘In the past. Humans, I mean. Nobody important, nobody I tempted or anything – they just…’ He shrugs with extreme feeling, looking off to the side, looking unsettled. ‘Tried too hard to fit in, sometimes, this time of year.’

It’s a mumble that says too much; there’s a hitch in his throat, his own (always ironic) Adam’s apple; his jaw set and Aziraphale, with a jolt, remembers the nights of All Hallows Eve past, from its humble beginnings of superstition and subtly avoiding getting himself and Crowley burnt at the stake, all the way up to today; there’s been many the October the 31st when Crowley’s snuck off, all disco and fervour, into the dark to join the fun, his glasses secure on his face, always. Sometimes a mission, always a chance to dance and always waved off for the evening by Aziraphale, who was happy to stay in the shop with a hot chocolate and a gothic novel or three.

And sometimes – in fact, more often than not, in recent years, he could simply be found creeping his way into the shop, sometimes serpentine but always achingly sober, curling up on Aziraphale’s sofa of a Halloween evening with a bottle of red that he’s always been good enough to share and a box of chocolates or two and even seeing off horrible little so-called trick or treaters occasionally (Aziraphale has no idea how that horrific tradition made it over the pond but while the Americans make it seem a positively charming tradition, it’s taken a miracle or three to render his little corner of Soho clear from the mess of eggs, flour and confetti that grace so many other streets by the morning of November 1st. If anyone has happened to notice that this street always seems to gain a reprieve from the consequences of allowing hideous teenagers to wander through town once a year in search of free sweets and cheap ways to alleviate their boredom, nobody has commented upon it).

Aziraphale wonders if he can wrest the details of the clearly-ill-mannered humans that have pushed Crowley into this metaphorical corner, made him feel so low on this night of all nights – and yet he knows the fruitlessness of it. They’re most likely humans who are dead and gone but here’s the thing; it’s not unlike Crowley to stew on something for a century, or three. He wonders who might have got too close to Crowley at the wrong moment, who wound him up enough to spark an angry, defensive reaction. Who alienated him long enough to make him wonder if he truly belonged, no matter how hard he tried.

He knows _he_ has before. And as much as he would love to throw a few hardbacks on top of the heads of such rude individuals who have clearly upset his friend so, once upon a time – it’s one way of making them ever so slightly intellectual, he supposes – he’ll have to come up with something else. Something better. 

‘I think you’re rather lovely,’ he murmurs and today, there’s no being shoved back against the wall – or a bookshelf, in this case – with vehement, angry, almost panicked-protests; _I’m not lovely, I’m not nice, I am what I am, you can’t call me otherwise just because you **think** you like what you see –_ but always closer to an empty warning, rather than a threat.

Instead, there’s simply eyeing one of the demon’s slim, careful hands - complete with black nail-polish that he’s just helped to touch up – hovering in a soft tremble, lingering by Crowley’s thigh like a child slipping down a staircase after bedtime, trying desperately not to be caught. Aziraphale hums; shifts the books to his chest as he reaches out to take it, soothe it, hold it in his own for a moment; then he raises his chin, his eyes, to meet Crowley’s own. _You don’t frighten me. You never have._

Crowley raises his eyebrows; his glasses are off and they always remind Aziraphale of the glint of a full whiskey-glass, flashing in the sunset on a summer’s day and he studies the angel’s features for a moment, as though expecting to hear some contradiction, maybe, some revelation that he’s just teasing and nothing more. He surely can’t be lovely when he’s slamming Aziraphale against the wall, warning him not to use _that_ word, that four-letter-N-word. He can’t be wonderful when he’s trying to teach a young boy to thwart good ideas.

He _can’t_ be lovely, can he, if he Fell.

He swallows again, his other hand flailing in midair like a drunken moth with far too much freedom before it ends up landing distractedly on Aziraphale’s bowtie, giving it a tweak; an attempt to ground himself as much as anything else, it’s clear. Murmuring softly, he excuses himself just long enough to place the books reverently on a conveniently-nearby table; Crowley smiles a little, a soft, dry thing that slips away as Aziraphale turns his full attention to him and simply, silently reaches out, gathers him in, brings him close. He takes Crowley’s arms; settles them around his own shoulders, like a confident owner with a particularly friendly snake; a buoy in the sea of Crowley’s ever-so-complicated emotions. Wraps his own arms around Crowley in turn and smiles at him, guileless and unafraid; tips himself up on tiptoe to press a gentle kiss to his cheek.

‘You’re the loveliest of flowers,’ he murmurs, right in his ear, smiling at the scoff that greets his words over his shoulder; it’s true, so who are either of them to pretend otherwise? He runs his hand down his back, hoping to soothe him, holds him close, hopes it’s enough to keep him warm, and beloved, and safe.

‘You know what I’m capable of,’ Crowley murmurs, voice like a creaking door, even as his palms settle on Aziraphale’s elbows, rubbing the spot with his thumb; with hesitance. ‘Aziraphale. You _know_ what I’m like.’ He frightens people, he knows this, whether he means to or not; whether his glasses are off or on; whether he’s in a good mood or a bad one; whether he’s turning off the mobile network or terrorising an irritating office-worker with a paint-gun.

Aziraphale hums, murmurs softly, comfortingly, feeling safer here in this demon’s arms than he’s ever felt anywhere else. ‘Yes, I do.’ The snap of fingers, the echoing rattle of chains, him suddenly liberated. The slamming-open of a church-door, awkward, tip-toe-dance-dashing down the aisle to reach him. Smiling upon him with that tender quirk of the mouth in both spring and summer; in autumn and winter.

‘I _do_ know, Crowley.’ He hears the sigh, the first melt of the demon finally starting to let go, of letting himself be held; pulls back just enough to make Crowley look at him. ‘And I know you’re just _wonderful.’_

*


End file.
